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The Old Neanderthal Shaman MusesTo Richard Fein's previous piece     The Dynamics of CapitalismTo Mark Hartenbach's next piece


Soldier ants with heads made heavy by slavery,
monstrous mandibles useless except for oppression,
deadly-helpless warriors, obedient cops
relying on governesses to be fed.
Her royal majesty,
once a winged sylph sailing the winds,
now a bloated egg layer dependent
on a sea of sterile daughters.
Workers, legions of the childless,
forever milking the belly of slaves for nectar
and tirelessly waiting on their betters.
A corporate regality,
mighty mounds thrown high,
passageways penetrating deeper than tree roots,
even ingenious catch basins for rain.
But no hearts are captured here.
None raise their antennae in defiance,
and if any did to whom would they preach?
Perfect world,
where the slightest twitch of a leg has purpose.
Play is treason.
Busy soldiers excise rebels as cancers.

I above taking notes,
committing misdemeanors when no one watches,
cursing the betters of my kind for their surfeit of honey,
and commiserating with slaves of any kind.
I am blessed with a costly gift,
envy--fecund seeds that ripen into the devil's fruit.
If I could just plant one in their nest,
gnarling their well-ordered channels by growing jealous roots.
Germinating acrimony, and yet
allowing for maybe one being below
to steal a moment for her own
to measure her state and to marvel
at the dark soil from which we all arose.

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